Limestone

by Fiona Farrell

  No, thought Clare, sprawled upon the sofa, witnessing the stand-off. Her relationship with Paul was much to be preferred. Paul hated parties. He was at home in his flat at this very moment, watching Match of the Day live on Sky and happy to be on his own, while she was here, reaching for another truffle. How good it was to be able to choose to stay or leave, to eat or drink what she pleased, to save her money for later or spend it all now, to do and say and think whatever she liked, without the tender shackles of loving restraint.

  In their odd fashion they had survived. For ten years they had remained together, while the relationships of friends, on their more conventional base of wedding, shared mortgage and a stifling routine of regular Friday-night dinners, Christmases spent with their respective families in exact rotation, and holidays spent firmly coupled on tramps in the Urewera or on yachts in the Sounds, wobbled and crashed. Absurd at best, doomed at worst.

  The good sense of their arrangement seemed confirmed when Elizabeth arrived at her flat one Thursday evening, tear stained and clutching a small suitcase and asking if she could stay for a while, because Roderick — devoted Roderick, boring Roderick, predictable Roderick — had been having an affair with his PA (who else?). Clare had said, ‘Come in, come in! Of course you can stay just as long as you like!’ She had made Elizabeth a cup of tea. She had put fresh sheets on the spare-room bed. She had sat up listening till 2 a.m. to the full account of how Elizabeth had discovered the deception. (A careless email — how predictable, how boring.) She had found her a box of tissues and sat, counsellor fashion, on the sofa, listening to what Elizabeth had to say about her errant husband, what he had said to her, and what about the kids, how could he do that to their sons — all the miserable detail. She had lain in her own bed at last, hearing Elizabeth’s muffled sobs through the wall, and she had been sorry for her, of course. She had resolved to be a good friend and a caring colleague.

  But all the while, in a tiny part of herself, she had felt a tiny tickle of self-satisfaction. Roderick’s predictable deception, the failure of the perfect marriage, confirmed the rightness of her own situation. She and Paul allowed one another space to be themselves. And because of that they would survive while those who lived in shackled intimacy would crack inevitably. It was just a matter of time. She and Paul were unconventional, but contented to be that way. They simply didn’t need to spend every waking moment in each other’s company.

  That last trip, three years ago, when Paul headed off to Uttarakhand and she had gone to France to see cave art, she had prepared in her usual fashion, reading the most recent research, booking her accommodation well in advance, sitting up in bed on the nights she slept alone at her own flat, examining guide books with colour photographs of castle ramparts ranged along a skyline and markets peopled by dumpy women in polka-dot pinafores scrutinising the produce with an expert’s eye. She had everything under control.

  The Paul went to Uttarakhand and found God.

  ‘What do you mean “found God”?’ said Clare when he told her on the day they both returned to Christchurch. They were lying in his bed. His backpack was half emptied on the floor, ropes and crampons and a month’s worth of dirty washing spilling all over the carpet.

  Normally this was one of the parts she loved best: their reunions after weeks apart. The moment when they met again and it was all a little strange. She’d walk into Paul’s kitchen and see him turning to greet her, this tall lanky man looking more tanned than she remembered, with paler patches round his eyes where his goggles had kept off the snow glare. And he’d be smiling, glad to see her too. And they’d put their arms round one another and they’d each feel that slight shyness that made the touching fully alive. He’d hug her close and she’d snuggle against him, remembering the boniness of his rib cage and the feel of his big hands stroking her hair and the way his chin rested against her forehead.

  They’d go to bed then, straight away, tumbling together onto the duvet or, if that seemed too far away, onto the living-room carpet, tugging at zips and buttons and shoes and set to the business of rediscovering one another’s body, so familiar yet just a little strange, the skin tasting of foreign places. There’d be that spicy scent that lingers on people when they have come from India, the whiff of patchouli and fenugreek. And the smell of some new perfume she had bought in one of those dedicated perfumeries in France with all those shelves and shelves of Ysatis and Dior. They’d stroke and taste one another’s skin and if the sex before they had parted had become a little dull, a little routine, now it was revived. They twisted round one another, tried positions they hadn’t tried in ages, on top, behind, beneath, seated, standing, kneeling, lying prone, her legs wrapped about his back, his mouth on her, her mouth on him, all that lovely sticky absurd unselfconscious business of sex, till they came together and lay back, delighted at their excess.

  Then they told each other their adventures. All the things they had been saving to tell one another when they met: the annoyances, the irritations, the bureaucratic bastard in Delhi who had tried to impound Paul’s passport, the missed flights, the day she had flown out of Paris an hour before the entire airport terminal crashed to the ground, and there she was, flying to Toulouse, when only an hour before she’d been sitting beneath those soaring arches thinking how amazing they were. Such élan! Such éclat! And the whole lot was getting ready to collapse.

  They had saved the funny things, things seen or heard, amazing sights, interesting people encountered along the way, rehearsing them, storing them away in the memory for just this moment: when Paul lay back against the pillows and she curled against his nice warm chest, his heart beating steadily beneath the bony arches of his rib cage, their legs entwined, and they talked and talked.

  But this time, Paul pulled away. He had made love to her with a kind of deep tenderness that unnerved her. There had been none of the usual playful teasing. Clare had looked up once when they were close to climax and seen him looking down into her eyes and it was as though he was being kind. He was fucking her in farewell. She’d seen that look before and knew to expect bad news. She had been planning to tell him about the revelation that she had experienced at Niaux, but that would have to wait.

  In the silence that followed the little groan, the heave, the drawing apart she said, ‘What?’

  Her limbs felt heavy.

  She dreaded the answer. Had he met someone? Was that it? Some woman climber who was more compatible? Someone with fantastic ice technique who was incredibly strong at high altitudes? Was that it?

  No.

  Paul had found God.

  On the face of Shivling, he had been caught in an avalanche.

  A couple of hundred cubic metres of ice and snow had detached itself from the mountain’s smooth flank and roared down on them, despite it not being the avalanche season, despite their careful planning, despite the handful of holy rice they’d sprinkled to propitiate an arbitrary deity. Paul had been leading at the time, looking up at an expanse of good clean ice, planning where to place the axe, when he was swept away. The air had shimmered and he was gone, tumbling head over heels, taking his two companions with him though their ropes had snapped like cotton thread. He had made some futile attempt to swim the tide as he’d been trained, but really it was futile. Shivling had simply shrugged her massive shoulder and flicked the humans from her like so many troublesome insects. And when she stopped playing about, he found himself stripped of all his clothes except his boots. His locator had gone. He was held naked in the iron grip of ice, arms to his sides, powerless to move. His eyes were pressed shut by snow. His ears were closed by snow. There was just one tiny miraculous space about his mouth so he was able to breathe. Everything had been torn from him: sight and hearing, any sense of orientation. He had no idea if he was standing upright, or lying on his side, or maybe upside down. He was held in a narrow tomb, in utter enforced stillness. He had no idea how long he remained like that. Time ceased, feeling was non-existent. He could feel the tiny puff of his own bre
ath. Inhale. Exhale. He stood and breathed.

  He was lucky. An Indian party had seen the fall and rushed to their rescue. Amazingly, they all survived. A couple of broken ribs, a crushed ankle, but all three were alive. He had been the last to be found. His locator had come to rest several metres away, but they dug around and found him. Blue and hardly breathing, but alive.

  He returned to Kausani to recuperate, and that was when he found God.

  Not the God they both knew from childhood, the patriarch who had occupied the majesty of the Basilica and, less dogmatically, Nelson Cathedral where he had kept a tally of the parishioners’ Good Works. But a God who communicated with suppliant humanity through a middle-aged Punjabi with a compound of devotees all clad in devotional white.

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Clare.

  Paul removed his arm from beneath Clare’s shoulders.

  ‘Of course I’m serious,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been more serious. Sri Daba is amazing. He has changed my life.’

  ‘But you’ve always said that gurus and the rest of it were crap! I remember you saying that in Rishikesh. You said those guys were just cons who’d figured out how to squeeze money from gullible westerners.’

  ‘Well, I guess I must be a gullible westerner,’ said Paul. ‘All I know is, nothing made sense before him and now it does. I know what my life’s purpose is.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Clare. ‘And what might that be? Giving all you’ve got to some fake so he can buy another couple of Mercedes?’

  ‘You’re so cynical,’ said Paul. ‘You have no faith in anything, so you’re bound to find the surrender of selfhood hard to understand.’ He was being patient, as if she were a wayward child, too immature to understand the profound truths vouchsafed him.

  ‘So what did he tell you that was so compelling?’ said Clare. ‘This Sri Dada?’

  ‘Sri Daba,’ said Paul. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that exactly. His words were for me alone. And anyway what are words? Just breath. It is the ear that gives them meaning. They’d mean nothing to you.’

  His eyes were dreamy with devotion and his voice had already acquired a faintly Indian accent. A grey warbler trilled in the tree branches outside the window.

  ‘Okay,’ said Clare. ‘So if you can’t tell me what he said, can you tell me what he did?’

  Paul looked up at the ceiling, giving her request earnest consideration.

  ‘He called me up,’ he said, ‘from this enormous crowd. We’d been waiting for hours, and when he arrived, he looked around and beckoned to me.’ Five minutes of private audience with the great man, and at its conclusion he had brushed his hand over Paul’s bowed head and brought forth a ring.

  ‘This ring,’ said Paul, holding out his hand for her inspection. He wore a plain silver band on the fourth finger of his right hand.

  ‘But every marketplace crook in India can do that!’ said Clare. ‘Rings, coins out of thin air. You’ve seen them do it! How can a single conjuring trick make you believe this guy is divine?’

  Paul drew back his hand. He shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I guess belief isn’t critical. And Sri Daba doesn’t profess to be divine. He’s not some cult leader demanding worship for himself. He’s a simple man.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Clare. How could he say that belief had nothing to do with critical thought? How could he be so vapid?

  ‘Well, yeah,’ said Paul. ‘He talks about simple things, like love.’

  ‘Love in all things?’ said Clare. ‘Let me guess. Love in the service of others. Loving your inner child. All we need is love.’

  ‘There’s no point in us talking,’ said Paul, gentle forbearance and love for all things beginning to crack just a little. ‘You’re not in a mood to receive. You should come and see him for yourself, then you’d understand.’

  ‘I’d rather swallow this pillow,’ said Clare. ‘I’d rather … wear a thong. I’d rather … watch rugby highlights for all eternity.’

  Paul smiled that gentle smile. ‘Sri Daba says everyone comes to understanding when they are truly ready.’ He stretched his arms above his head, the damp brush of hair startlingly black against the tender white of concealed skin.

  ‘So does Astral the Astrologer in the Woman’s Weekly,’ said Clare. ‘That’s the standard formula.’

  Paul got up and began looking for his underpants in the heap of clothes on the floor. Clare watched from the bed as he dragged them on, that little shrug to settle them comfortably round the hips, the quick accommodating tuck of the genitals.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘what are you going to do now that you have come to understanding? Apart from sending regular donations, that is?’

  And Paul said he was giving up work, he was selling everything he owned. He was going to put his flat on the market, he was going to return to India and work for the foundation in Kausani. They were expecting him there at the end of the month.

  ‘And what about us?’ said Clare from her nest on the bed.

  ‘Well,’ said Paul, tugging on his jeans, one leg, then the other. ‘If you don’t want to come with me …’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Clare. ‘I won’t. I couldn’t.’

  There was silence in the room. Paul’s room, with its photos of mountains pinned to the walls, its messy male clutter, so different from her own muted, tidy space. He never dusted, never vacuumed; he fixed his bike and never bothered to cover the carpet. She liked this room, the feeling it gave her of coming to visit a man in his own place unrestrained by female taste. She liked the smell of it, the faint sexual strangeness that still surrounded sleeping in this room. She liked the nights when he came to sleep in her house, in her bed, and the surprise of waking in the morning to find him there, stretched out on the left-hand side of the bed, snoring faintly in early morning light, and the way the bed and the room smelled differently, of him. She loved watching him move about her house, wholly himself.

  ‘You’ve always said you valued the independent life,’ said Paul, tugging his tee shirt over his head. ‘I was the one that wanted to move in together, remember, when we first got together. You were the one who said we must keep our own places. You were the one that insisted we must be free to live our own lives.’

  She had said that. She believed it still.

  He shoved his feet into his sneakers, not bothering as usual to undo the laces. ‘Sri Daba says we learn from all men. The poorest beggar on the road can direct us to our true path. You taught me to be less dependent, Clare. And I really appreciate it.’ There: he was dressed. He had reassembled himself as Paul. And yet he was also reassembled as a total stranger. He bent down and kissed her briefly on the cheek, as if she were a specially valued employee receiving her redundancy cheque. ‘I love you,’ he said.

  But now the love was less specific. She was loved as he now loved everything and everyone.

  So Paul went off to India to dish up dhal bhat by the bucketful to the faithful, the sunlight glinting on the little metal ring on his fourth finger, while Clare is here, following her own path in a Toyota Starlet through the outskirts of Limerick. She is driving away from a conference for which she has planned for months. She has spent hours preparing her presentation: every word, every image has been painstakingly considered. But now the words will remain unsaid, and the images unseen. She is bunking, she who has scarcely ever bunked in her life.

  Maddie bunked. Back when they were teenagers she often sneaked off to spend the afternoons in the company of her horse or skidding off with boys in beaten-up Holdens to the beach. She was smart and rarely detected. Brian bunked too, hanging out on the rough ground down by the harbour, sometimes with a mate, sometimes alone, concealed behind the big empty stone buildings, drinking and smoking and swallowing whatever came to hand. Medications nicked from pharmacies and unattended bathroom cabinets that left his heart jumping beneath his skinny chest like a fish speared under sand. Or booze of any variety and in any combination. Or datura boiled up in an old saucepan, so
that the visions came pouring in and he had to be talked down from the overbridge high above the railway tracks from which he was planning to dive into a deep pool fringed with rushes.

  Sometimes Clare has met one of those mates, grown respectable now, with a mortgage and a Mitsubishi with airbags, and they have talked about her brother. They mention that they knew him back in the day, that they hung out with him down at the harbour, and always their faces take on a faraway look, a kind of awe. ‘Man,’ they say. ‘He was WILD.’

  Brian was neither smart nor careful, and he was caught repeatedly. Shop owners found him with his pockets full of stolen stuff. Nightwatchmen identified his savage painted scrawl on stone walls and railway wagons. The police found him sleeping rough on the beach. (He said he just liked looking up at the stars — you had no idea how many fell in a single night.)

  And every time he was caught, his mother rushed to his defence, pleading for leniency. It was such a struggle, she said, raising a son like him on her own with no father to control him. She would do her best to get him to behave, to clean up the mess he had made, to attend school. And faced with her transparent desperation, this little blonde woman who had been pretty once, the authorities relented. He would be given one more chance. So Brian would attend school for a few days, perhaps, where he would sit in some airless, chalky classroom, jigging with impatience at a narrow school desk, and by the end of one week or at best two he’d bunk again. Until he turned fifteen, when he walked out for the last time and settled into his brilliant career.